


A Thousand-and-One Truly Weird Nights

by MadameWinter, Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Perpetual Nonesense [8]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, British India, M/M, Tragedy, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameWinter/pseuds/MadameWinter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>British India, 1930. In the wake of a World War and the loss of the man he loved, Lord Francis Stokes has travelled to India to forget London, England, and everything even vaguely associated with his lost love. Georgie - Lady Georgiana Stanier - had lied. She had always told him that dreams were all they had in this world. But that wasn't true. He had nightmares, too. And memories. And sometimes, he couldn't tell the difference any more.</p><p>When, one day, he stumbles upon a kind-hearted dancer in an opium den, life seems to take a turn for the better. But the young woman is bound to this world come hell or high water, and Francis realises far too late that what belonged to Lionel Nevermoor always came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand-and-One Truly Weird Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the perspective, which switches between the present (1930) and the past (1888).

**1930\. British India. Now**

_The sweet opium smoke blurred the edges of everything, hazing away definition. Drapes of blue and violet silk slung from the ceiling, caged red lamps studded the cloth like dying stars. The space had no form, it was like a tent but the ground was cushioned stone. Men stripped to the waist lounged like sultans breathing from polished pipes, their greying beards stained with wine and sugar._

_All were dressed in white cotton suitable for the smothering heat. It burnt the air and left only dreams behind. It denied reality and that was the only thing Francis wanted. A dream to chase away the bad realities and give him some measure of happiness again; or, at least, believe that is what it was doing. He was hollow, torn out and it was his fault. Even an immortal had only one heart and he had given it to a butcher to make him a bed drenched in blood._

_The silk of the turban around his head slipped down brushing his cheek. It felt like a hand with fingers skimming the soft skin, lazily teasing. If only… Hypnotic tabla beats floated in the air with the strains of strings and Pungi. A Sitar player sat in the middle of the small band, plucking the strings of the elegant instrument in time to the whirls of a blue clad dancer. She whirled around until she was nothing more than a dizzying blur of peacock shades and jangling jewellery. Francis smiled at the skill of her swift little legs._

_Dust fairies danced in rings before his eyes, glimmering in the reflections of golden thread and glass beads hopping in time with the tabla and the foot beats of the dancer. They danced to obscure whispers that held very little meaning becoming nothing more that shifting tunes. The voices in his head blended into each other harmonising._

_A grotesque dwarf draped in a cotton wrap wandered around like a jailer inspecting his charges. Francis nestled himself into the mound of soft pillows close to a smoking bowl of incense and opium. He opened his collar, clutching the silver pin. The heady concoction stuffed his senses until he saw stars floating in his vision. A serving girl wandered over and lay beside him, placing her dark hand on his chest. Her large eyes framed with Kohl looked at him with lust and trepidation._

_Francis didn’t fight her as she slipped her hand up to his bared chest, unhooking the button as she did. He shut his eyes and pretended the skinny fingers were growing in size and strength, tracing the outline of his ribs. A sweet smile hung in the darkness of his eye lids. Just a smile, yet it was enough. Enough to feel soft moist lips kiss their way up his exposed chest. Incense became bitter wood smoke and tobacco as flesh met flesh._

_Francis didn’t want to fight it, he liked drowning. He liked feeling the air crushed from his lungs and as the cold hands ran like claws down his sides, he could just hear an echoing laugh soaked in amusement and danger. It sent shivers down his spine and bright staring eyes of green joined the smile._

_An ache rose in Francis’s throat as if tears threatened to fall again, but his eyes had long since dried. The heat stole the tears before they were even shed. He could feel himself wither like a lily in a desert. The once rose pink sari of the serving girl blended to a smudged grey with opium smoke, no longer pretty as she played with Francis’ skin and hair._

_Suddenly she was dragged away by the hideous dwarf. With remarkable strength, he threw her to the floor with a sick crunch. Francis recoiled in horror but his body was so drugged it couldn’t move. The dwarf smiled, revealing cracked teeth before adding more opium into the smoking bowl petting Francis’ hair with gnarled old fingers, letting a finger nail trace down his cheek._

_“Dream away stranger… take all the time you need… I’ll still have more.” The dwarf chuckled to himself patting Francis’ cheek with an almost fatherly touch. The dwarf shuffled away pulling the cotton wrap closer around him as if he was cold._

_Francis felt like a prisoner of his own body. Watching from behind his eyes and floating in nothing but black. Pain and hurt hung over him like vultures and the smoke continued to thicken leaps of colour flashing from cloud to swirl. Francis sank further into the psychedelic miasma as darkness crept over his eyes._

_“Ah’le... Why…”_

* * *

 

**1888\. London, United Kingdom. Then**

Lord Francis Stokes flipped open his pocket watch, slipping his paper under his arm; 9:45 am. The mechanics buzzed with an irritating slowness. He hated being this early, there was very little he could do considering he was having his chimneys swept. His Butler Gates had decided that today would be spring cleaning day, you might as well get rid of all the dust along with the soot. Francis had left not willing to get under Gates's feet, Gates would ensure it was all done and cleaned up correctly. But as a result he had an hour yet until he had to arrive at the palace. Not that he didn't mind delaying his trip to the palace, in his ideal world Francis would much rather avoid all palace meetings in favour of social calls and outings. However that was not quite his luck.

Francis slipped his pocket watch away, buttoning his coat against the chill breeze that teased its way from the alleyways. The sky was an ominous steel grey and the sound of thunder could just be made out on the horizon over the din of London's business. A storm was coming, of that he was sure, and the tall London houses and offices didn’t seem to give much in the way of shelter in any form.

Francis tugged his beaver top hat further down over his head, concealing even further his scarlet ponytail and decided to find a suitable café to wait out the inevitable rain before it started.

The streets were surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday. Hansom cabs and carriages were squeezed into the road with only just enough room for a single person to pass between them. The stink of horse sweat and piss filled the air even with the cool breeze.

Young ladies in pastel shaded day gowns clutching the arms of equally well dressed gentlemen filed past him with parasols open against the drizzle. It was a typical day in London for Francis. Slipping expertly through the reams of people and skirts, giving good mornings here and there as he felt, Francis felt surprise that anyone with good sense wouldn’t be out in this weather at all. He wouldn’t be if it were not for the urgent call to the palace today. The newly heated conservatory with it's tall palms and scented jasmine simply called for him to return home and forget the whole venture but then when one received a letter from the queen, obedience was expected what ever the weather might be.

Francis came to the end of the street and waited for a chance to cross the frantic street to the other side. Dodging out into the centre, Francis nimbly weaved in and out of the cabs. As he reached the other side, a cab wheel clipped Francis on the heel. He instantly over balanced and tumbled forward. Francis collided into the chest of a man who staggered in shock, sending Francis backward.

Francis’ head hit the lamp post with a metallic thud.. Bright light blossomed in front of his eyes forming dizzying flowers that spun like a carousel. He groaned and his world lost focus for the briefest of moments. The stranger glared at Francis with seeming concern but Francis didn't fully comprehend his companion very strongly as the stars blanked out much of his world for a while. The voice thought, stomach turningly familiar.  
“Careful where you jump out... hit your head?” he moved forward. Francis backed away nearly toppling over again. He wasn’t sure why he was backing away.

“I’m terribly sorry.. I’m fine… just dizzy,” Francis gripped the pole nodding, trying to control the sudden urge to give into the creeping darkness. “I’ll be fine….” He breathed for a moment and straightened. The stranger watched with vulture eyes.

“Glad to see you will be. I must be on my way.” The stranger slipped passed with a squeeze of his shoulder. Francis watched him go, massaging his head slightly and blinking away the vertigo. A chill ran down his spine as thunder crashed over him.

The rain had just begun to fall as Francis pushed the door of his favourite café open. The tinkling of a small bell greeted him along with the rich scent of coffee and liqueur. It was an elegant yet very richly decorated café managing to balance the heavy opulence of the furniture and openness of the windows. Cushioned antique chairs surrounded high tables covered in Persian cloth and large shaded lamps gave light to every corner of the room. It highlighted the various antiques on display around the edge of the room on marble surfaces.

The light from the windows was shaped with heavy velvet curtains tied with tassels but the room was misted with the smoke of cigars and pipes of various customers. It was a beautiful sight after the grey buildings and rain. Francis carefully slipped his hat and coat off, mindful of how damp they were as he hung them up on the stand. He squeezed his long ponytail slightly to remove at least the worst of the water.

With the grace of a dancer, Francis made his way around the chairs, minding he didn’t knock or disturb someone’s cup of tea. After a moment he chose a soft carpeted armchair snuggled in the corner, close to the window. He sat for a few moment just admiring the view of streets below.

“Sir?”

He turned brightly to the waiter. “A cup of earl grey and a glass of absinthe thank you.” He spoke with a flourished ending with a slight smile. The waiter disappeared among the chairs with the order.

Francis snuggled himself back, warming by the fire in the grate. He slipped out his newspaper and glanced at the first page. The very first article seemed to throw itself from the page: Police investigate the Second Ripper murder in White chapel. Francis frowned. Another murder in the east end. This was worrying; perhaps not for ignorant gentry, they saw the people in the east end as wastes of oxygen and space. Murderers always came from the degenerate so why worry at all? Francis chuckled at the irony. But he had to clear up those who created the mess and face those so called degenerates for himself. He read further gathering bits of detail from the tiny print underneath the picture of the east side of London. He prayed it wasn’t another 'gifted' individual and folded the paper up.

The waiter appeared with his drinks, setting them silently down on the table. As Francis stirred his tea, he heard the door ring again. He turned to see the same man who he had nearly knocked down in the street earlier.

In contrast to how Francis came in, the man was positively soaking. His gray Inverness coat dripped and his ash brown whiskers had plastered themselves down to the side of his face. He had been splashed by the hansom cab, that much was obvious from his sheer sodden state. It was too dark and solid to be just the rain. As the man struggled his coat off Francis motioned him over. There was instant recognition and Francis gave an apologetic smile as the man moved over and sat in the armchair opposite. He was confronted with a face he had not seen in twenty years. Alistair...

“It’s warmer over here.” Francis motioned to the fire with a delicate tilt of his head. Alistair started to return the smile as Francis ordered a cup of tea for him.

“Is this for nearly knocking me over?” There was a curious twinkle in his gentle green eyes. Francis gave a soft chuckle that was more of a giggle.

“I was the one who stumbled into the gas lamp but it was my fault. I should have been paying attention. I do apologise again.”

“Alistair Blackpool. The only polite thing to do would be introductions at this point. ” Francis blinked then he grinned widely. Alistair clearly did not remember him from that fateful ball two decades ago, or did he? Francis could play this game better than anyone. He wondered how Alistair had lost his memories, for he appeared very much the same man. As did Francis himself.

“Not ‘the’ Alistair Blackpool, heir to the Blackpool Steel industries? Well fancy that. I’m Lord Francis Stokes, Private Sectary to her Majesty the Queen.” Francis extended a hand to Alistair which he took. The hand was warm, almost burning but in a strangely pleasant way. He relaxed into it feeling the familiar energy flow into him like a boiling river.

Francis felt the hand pull away and he instantly let go, smiling at the pleasure of fresh energy coursing through his veins. Not enough to fill him, but enough to taste. This man had a fire consuming him like nothing Francis had ever experienced before; a burning inferno. It tasted of excitement and danger, widening the smile on Francis' face. It reminded him of Florence 1763. Psychic energy so intense it was like pure sugar.

Francis surveyed the sumptuously rich silks in Alistair’s waist coat and cravat, taking in the beauty of their floral patterning and the fine wool of his jacket as if looking for extra damage. “I do hope your coat isn’t ruined. Cab drivers can be quite… what's the word… brutal? In their driving. Not seeing the puddles at all.” Francis didn't remember Alistair to be a dandy before, but with money came indulgence: it took one to know one.

Francis didn’t mind admitting, in his times without money, caution was taken about his appearance and he enjoyed wearing fine clothes. Feeling the brush of silk shirts against his skin secured in place by a heavy velvet waistcoat was heavenly to him. Thanks to a naturally slim tapered waist, Francis regularly forwent a corset, preferring only a tightened waistcoat for definition. He had a natural flair for being the centre of attention and drawing the admiring gazes of others. He was also often the centre of much envy among his fellows, who wished they had such a figure and pestered him for tips on achieving one. Francis rarely gave his true secret away, preferring to watch the admirers hang on his fictitious advice and tripping over themselves to replicate it. By another’s standards it could be considered cruel but it was better than the more disturbing truth. A truth he had so carefully hidden for centuries. But he rarely dwelt on it, there was no point. He couldn’t change it anyway.

“No.. thankfully my overcoat took the brunt of it, I would have been rather irritated if my waistcoat had been damaged. Silk stains so easily.” Alistair smiled warmly with a slight chuckle as Francis nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Do not let wine touch it.. ever. I made that mistake at a ball once. During one of the dances, I was spinning the prettiest little lady I had ever seen backwards. A servant carrying wine didn’t see me and bumped into my side spilling wine all down my best clothes. Hardly a charming night.” The tale was from the same night that they had first met at the ball. Francis kept his face neutral but watched for the subtle expressions in Alistair’s face that might betray his familiarity with the event.

Alistair chuckled with amusement at the tale as he sipped his cup of tea, watching Francis call over a plate of neatly stacked sugar cubes for the absinthe. “You favour a sweet spirit then?” No reaction. Either Alistair didn't remember or he was the most talented lair Francis knew.

He looked at Alistair through his slightly fluttered eyelashes with a hint of a guilty smile. It was true he couldn’t help himself around sugar, it was amazing he stayed as slim as he was. Some days he could just doze on a méridienne and eat nothing but cake. “I’m a sweet tooth myself I must confess but I’d hardly call Absinthe a sweet spirit.”

Alistair looked pointedly at the two sugar cubes on the lacy absinthe spoon. “But it doesn’t take much to make it so... One or two is enough to sweeten anything” there was a hint of twinkling mischief as Alistair took a cube from the pile and neatly popped it into his mouth.

Francis bit his lip holding back his giggles and a flush pink came to his cheeks as Alistair smiled at him. “If you are wanting something sweet… they do an excellent cake platter here. I personally am in no hurry.”

Alistair considered the offer, raising his eyebrows and flicking his spoon like a coin through his fingers.

Francis hoped the offer might tempt the man into staying a little longer. He was curious about him, everything was so familiar; his manner and the subtle way in which Alistair’s fingers moved. Broad articulate hands that never seemed to waste a movement contrasted too greatly with his voice. A mix of Scottish rumbling and cockney slang, thick and heavy. The combination didn’t make sense to Francis, it was incongruous and the only aspect Francis did not remember about him. New money didn’t have the genteel behaviour of landed gentry but they made a great show of pretending to it. Alistair didn’t, not even at the ball all those years ago, when he had announced his engagement to Mariette Silverglade. Francis wasn’t sure if it was just personal choice or something deeper. He trusted his instincts that told him that there was more to this man than met the eye. He had only seen such fluidity in a few people and they were far between centuries.

They continued to talk. It was small talk, polite coffee shop conversation with various degrees of socially acceptable topics such as complaining about the state of British weather and politics usually in the same breath.

Francis discovered that Alistair, for an indolent heir, was very well versed in politics and law, and appeared glad that someone else shared his notion that politicians sometimes acted like petulant children. It was at that point Francis noticed he had eaten the majority of the cakes. He blushed slightly thinking how rude and greedy Alistair must think he was. Six cakes should be enough for any two persons. But when Francis had swallowed his sweet tooth’s urges, he looked up to see Alistair’s smiling face. The blush intensified.  
“...it appears I have nearly eaten all the cakes. I won’t want lunch. I hope you managed to have some before I did.”

Alistair chuckled, taking a scone, “I could hardly begrudge you a few cakes, Lord Stokes.”

“My stomach seems to have a mind of it’s own. Sometimes I envy a woman her corset, it must restrict that pit we call a stomach wonderfully.”

Alistair’s expression could only have been one of high amusement but the tea cup prevented a full view.

Francis looked at his own, now very cold, tea with a pained look, giving a slight whimper of unhappiness.  
“There was another murder in White chapel last night, another prostitute.”

Alistair looked up from his slice of cake with a sympathetic expression and nodded solemnly. “Terrible business…Both fraud with danger, the Ripper does seem to have a fondness the poor girls.”

“Strange style of fondness... cut to shreds,” Francis remarked, his expression souring a little. “But prostitute murders really are solved. However, I’m not police. If anyone will catch the murderer, it will be them don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely. Though I hear they have hardly had much luck so far.” Alistair remarked with a light but disappointed tone.

They sat in contented silence for a while, merely enjoying the presence of the other. Francis had rarely seen someone like this. Something about Alistair was disturbing yet attractive. Charismatic. Francis had to swallow the desperate heat again rising up his chest. “So what does the indolent heir of a massive steel works do with his time?” He inquired in what he hoped was a casual tone. “You hardly look as if you loiter in offices and counting houses.”

Alistair seemed to consider something with a thoughtful look. His eyes met Francis’, holding them in a binding gaze. “There is always entertainment to be had if you know where to look for it. I do love a good party. There is little in this world that is more amusing than rubbing shoulders with the heights of society. I must admit I am not one of them, but humouring their mindless gossip is fun.”

Francis idly glanced at his watch and gasped in horror at the time. He had to leave, but he didn’t want to leave at all. “Oh Lord of Mercy, I’ll be late. So sorry to leave like this, Mr Blackpool, but I really must dash.” Francis called the waiter over to pay the bill.

“Can’t keep our Queen waiting.” Alistair waved as Francis rushed from the café into the after rain mist.

 

* * *

  
_As Francis slowly came to his senses again, he could feel the opium’s numbing effects wearing away. He ached, burned, yet he couldn’t be sure if it was his mind or his heart. His throat was too dry even to swallow. His shirt was sweat stained and undone. A small part of him felt disgusted at himself. How could one person reduce him to this? Barely a shell of a man._

_He had given all of his heart and then he had been shattered into so many pieces that putting himself together seemed futile. What had he done? Francis had been a slave to Alistair, so deeply in love that even pain was the highest ecstasy._

_What had been his crime that Alistair… his dear Ah’le... would despise him so for it? Had he not given enough, should he have torn his heart from his chest and handed it to Ah’le dressed and prepared for his pleasure? He would have done so if only he had asked._

_Francis heaved with dry sobs as he wished he could feel Alistair’s hands roam his body now. Guilt pressed in on his heart. He had pushed Alistair away with his own petty jealousies and insecurity; he had been the one to destroy years of happiness with snide manipulative comments._

_He could have welcomed with open arms and yet he had let fear stand in the way. He had feared being left out in the cold, abandoned and broken, if he had let the child in. Only to find that by rejecting the child, he had doomed himself to the fate he feared._

_Francis found himself despising his immortality, and not for first time in his life. The day Alistair’s death had been announced was the day Francis had hung himself, only to be left very much alive surrounded by a dead forest. He wanted to join Alistair in death yet an impenetrable barrier separated them. He was a foolish child, selfish and blind._

_So he had left for India, to lose himself in the crowded slums, in a drug addled state at an opium den. He may not be able to die but maybe his body would rot enough to be buried alive._

_Francis could feel his ribs press against his skin, when had he last eaten? He didn’t need to eat, but he lost weight quickly if he didn't. He didn’t want to think about how much of a mess he looked right now._

_What would Alistair say if he saw him? Francis didn't want to think about that either. He could all but hear the scathing jabs._

_The little blue clad dancer watched the pale foreigner with sad eyes. He grieved, he grieved so deeply she could feel his black depression roll off him like a fog. She wondered what he was grieving… a loved one? Of that she was sure. She drank deeply from her cup of tea but stopped half way._

_She raised herself to her feet and trotted over to the stranger with light silent footsteps, her jewellery jangling slightly as she held the cup as to not spill a drop. She ran into a graceful kneel, still not spilling a drop. She hesitated. If she was caught, she would be beaten for interfering with clients but he was crying out with thirst and no one was around to get him water!_

_She slipped her hand under his head, cupping the back of his skull to lift it up. Francis opened his eyes, looking at her. He tried to talk but no sound came from his dry lips. She smiled and carefully tipped the warm tea down his throat. He swallowed instantly, grateful for the liquid soothing his throat._

_The dancer smiled as she poured a little more down, confident he wouldn’t choke. But the tea was soon gone._  
 _“कोई और अधिक सर नहीं है (there is no more sir).” She whispered to him, hoping he would understand her, smoothing back hair from his forehead with her cool palm._

_Francis couldn’t help but stare at the little angel above him. What was Charlotte doing here? Her very face was identical to the pretty English rose, but Charlotte was dead and most certainly not Indian. This little dancer was as typically Indian as the gorgeous garments she wore. Could the opium be effecting his vision again? Maybe, but he felt too sure it was her to be a hallucination. Her cool hands soothed away the ache in his body and he could feel sleep beckoning again as she moved away with speed as the dwarf entered the room again._

_Behind the dwarf was a tall man. Shadows obscured the stranger's face and sleep mist warped his clothes into a blur of colour. The dwarf smiled, bending down to light the bowl of opium again. He drew curtains around them, leaving Francis and the man alone. It was only then that Francis realised with muted horror why the stranger was there. Though try as he might, he could not stop his slip into an opium warped world._

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to us. We would love to hear what you thought of it. And please, share this story freely but credit us and link back to us. Thank you!


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